


Freefall

by Boeshane42



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Missing Scene, Porn With Plot, Season 3 Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 09:45:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4701452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boeshane42/pseuds/Boeshane42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene from s03e13 "The Wrath of the Lamb", set before the last act. </p><p>Waiting for the Dragon in Hannibal's secret home, Will reevaluates his position on physical intimacy with Hannibal, only to discover that Hannibal has made the decision for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freefall

**Author's Note:**

> I retired from writing fan fiction a few years ago. Then "The Wrath of the Lamb" happened. So really, this fic is all Bryan Fuller's fault.

  

 

* * *

 

 

“Soon, all this will be lost to the sea.” Hannibal’s words linger in Will’s mind long after the doctor leaves him and goes into the house.

At the edge of the cliff, Will inhales deeply, tastes the salty air in the back of his throat. He looks down into the ocean’s dark, eternal vastness, at waves crashing into rock far, far below. The sight of them, violently disintegrating into foamy turbulence, is as terrifying as it is exhilarating.

A shiver runs through his body, the thick coat proving inadequate in the damp, breezy conditions. It’s not long before the chill finally drives him inside.

Daylight seems to fade between one second and the next. Will knows that the house’s massive glass walls won’t provide a view of what lurks outside for much longer. Instead, its occupants would be on display – vulnerable, irresistible targets for The Dragon. It is a disadvantage, but one which Will doubts would make a difference, in the end.

He walks past the covered furniture and bare kitchen. The space feels dormant rather than neglected, as if it has been waiting, in suspension, for the master of the house to return. It is an inanimate manifestation of its owner in every respect; elegant, meticulous and intricate.

Further in, Will hears the shower running. No doubt Hannibal, all-too-eager to wash away the last vestiges of his imprisonment. He follows the sound down an unlit hallway, stops at the entrance to the master bedroom, where a bronze table lamp casts warm, soft light on a mahogany-framed bed and matching dresser.

The water in the en suite bathroom shuts off and, moments later, Hannibal emerges. He glances at Will briefly, continues toweling his hair, nonchalant in his nudity.

Will remains in the doorway, leaning with his shoulder against the frame as he silently watches the other man.

“It won’t be long now,” Hannibal says as he opens the dresser, begins picking out clothes.

“A couple of hours, at most,” Will agrees.

He allows his eyes to linger on Hannibal’s body, takes note of the even dusting of hair along the doctor’s strong, broad chest. His toned, curved backside. His waist – more padded than it used to be, prior to his confinement, but still firm. His uncut cock, hanging long and heavy between his legs.

Will isn’t blatantly staring, but at the same time makes no effort to mask his scrutiny.

“Any novel insights?” Hannibal asks as he lays slacks and a soft-looking grey sweater on the chaise.

Will can’t tell, from his mild tone and expression, whether Hannibal is teasing him or is genuinely curious. Perhaps he’s both.

“Novel? No,” he says. “Just previously dismissed.” The unparalleled intimacy between them had never been of a sexual nature. It’s Hannibal’s mind that continuously draws Will in, rather than his body. But Will can acknowledge that his attitude toward the matter had been shaped, at least in part, by his assumption that Hannibal’s carnal interests were directed elsewhere.

Now he’s no longer confident in the accuracy of that assumption. In fact, he’s unsure of its initial validity.

“’Previously’ implies you’ve had a change of heart.” Hannibal walks over to him, stops deep enough within his personal space to set Will’s nerves on edge.

There is intent in the doctor’s gaze, unmistakable and unabashed.

 _Oh_.

It appears that Will had been slow on the uptake once again.

“You’ve been counting on it,” he surmises. “Planning, even.” A part of him wants to run away as fast as his legs would carry him.

“Always do. Although plans are inconsequential if one lacks the ability to amend them in real time.” Hannibal’s mouth twitches with a hint of a smile. “I had planned to take my time with you, Will.”

The thought alone is enough to make Will’s pulse pick up. “If you try that now, you’re likely to be interrupted,” Will reminds him, hoping that at the mention of The Dragon Hannibal’s priorities would realign, granting him a reprieve.

“I dislike being rushed,” Hannibal admits. “One cannot fully appreciate the complexity of a dish without dedicating the time to savor all its components.” His gaze travels down Will’s face, stops on the side of his neck. “But if this is to be our last supper, even a hurried mouthful is preferable to hunger, don’t you agree?”

Hannibal isn’t trying to persuade him, Will realizes. The decision has already been made. “Would my agreement, or lack thereof, influence your actions?” he asks, needing to know where he stands.

Hannibal tilts his head as he considers it. “It might.”

In a way that’s even worse. Will feels as incapable of saying ‘no’ as he is of saying ‘yes’. “You must know by now that I can’t stop you. You didn’t require my blessing to saw into my skull. Why ask for it before you take me to bed?”

“I had assumed you’d feel more comfortable as an unwilling participant in the former. Would the same be true for the latter?”

The absurdity of his words startles a laugh out of Will. “I think we’ve passed _comfortable_ a long time ago, Hannibal.” He doubts he’ll ever be comfortable while they’re in the same room together. Perhaps for them, uncomfortable is what’s meant to be.

Hannibal nods and finally reaches for him. “Indeed we have.”

It’s the first physical contact they’ve had in over three years. Just a light caress – Hannibal’s palm cupping his jaw, but it’s enough to make the breath flow out of Will’s lungs in a stuttered rush.

He closes his eyes, taking sight out of the equation, only to discover that his remaining senses are still overwhelmed – by the heat of Hannibal’s hand against his skin, by Hannibal’s scent – earthy, masculine and dark, and by the sound of his own heartbeats, pounding through his head.

Resistance is the last thing on Will’s mind. Whether because he knows Hannibal would overrule it, or because he doesn’t actually want Hannibal to stop, he isn’t sure.

The ease in which Hannibal divests him of his clothes is disturbing, even when Will remembers that the doctor had done so twice in the past, without the benefit of Will’s conscious cooperation.

Hannibal relocates them to the center of the bed without preamble, positions Will to his liking as his eyes travel over exposed, marred skin. He’s taking inventory, Will knows. Admiring his handiwork.

“Is it enough?” Will asks.

Hannibal drags his fingers, gently but not tentatively, along the scar that lines Will’s abdomen. “There’s still room for a few more.”

It is what Will expects. In fact, he’d be surprised if his body’s remodeling won’t resume before the night is over. Whether he’ll survive long enough afterward for the wounds to heal and scar is another matter altogether.

It’s both surprising and not, to discover first hand that Hannibal is as adept at administering pleasure as he is at administering pain. He handles Will’s body with the same deft precision he applies to the culinary arts, plays him with the same skill he does the harpsicord.

Will is a sweaty, frayed mess by the time Hannibal finally pushes into him; one careful, confident slide that mirrors the thrust of Hannibal’s curved blade into Will’s gut so perfectly, that the burst of pleasure becomes momentarily indistinguishable from the agony imprinted in Will’s memory.

Hannibal gazes at Will’s face through heavy-lidded eyes as he fucks him with deliberate, controlled movements. He shifts their bodies, adjusting the angle of his thrusts until each push feels like sweet, exquisite torture that Will can’t help but arch into.

When Hannibal’s rhythm finally breaks he lets his head hang low enough that his hair brushes Will’s shoulder with every snap of his hips. His fingers tighten in Will’s curls as a breathy, murmured “visada mano” escapes his lips. It’s barely audible but Will catches it nonetheless, recognizes the words from the basic Lithuanian dictionary he’d skimmed on his way to Hannibal’s childhood home: ‘Always mine’.

Hannibal’s slick grip shifts to drag over the head of Will’s cock, but it’s the barest scrape of his sharp teeth along Will’s collarbone that ends up sending Will over the edge, shaking and gasping, not unlike a man about to have his throat ripped out by an apex predator.

But the attack never comes.

Hannibal catches his breath above him, waits for Will to settle before he disengages. Will’s hand slides from Hannibal’s back to his side as the doctor moves away, and the contact is lost entirely when Hannibal withdraws to the edge of the bed and sits up. He keeps his face averted from Will as he picks up his discarded towel and passes it over.

Will doesn’t care much for post coital cuddling, but he has a feeling that Hannibal’s closed off stance has more to do with some internal process taking place in the doctor’s head than with Will’s preferences.  The initiative for this encounter may have been Hannibal’s, but it appears that its lingering effects are unplanned for and unwelcome.

“Not what you expected?” Will asks.

“Our association has always been a mutual journey of self-discovery,” Hannibal reflects, glancing at him.

For once, Hannibal’s face is like an open book to Will. He doesn’t need to ask what self-discovery the doctor is referring to. “It’s only endorphins. And oxytocin. You’ll be ready to eat me again in an hour,” Will says, deliberately dismissive.

Hannibal stands up, collects his clothes from the chaise. His expression smooths out into its characteristic emotionlessness, obscuring any sign that Will’s words have affected him in any way. “You should get dressed. We wouldn’t want to keep The Dragon waiting.” He doesn’t look at Will again as he goes into the bathroom and closes the door.

Will’s refusal to acknowledge Hannibal’s feelings is just one more in a series of rejections, necessary not in order to hurt the doctor, but in order to keep Will’s fragile psyche from shattering entirely. The alternative to rejection can only be surrender, and for an addict like Will, teetering on a cliff of indulgence, surrender means embracing Hannibal for all that he is, becoming him, and thereby eradicating everything that is Will Graham.

Will has never felt as close to the freefall of surrender as he does now.

He finishes cleaning himself up, begins pulling on clothes. He rolls up his shirtsleeves, doesn’t bother with the coat but tucks his gun into the back of his waistband and leaves his shirt untucked to cover it.

 

* * *

 

 

Back in the living room, Will stops in front of the window, looks out into pitch darkness. The Dragon may already be out there, looking back at him.

Different possibilities and scenarios play through Will’s mind. This was  _his_  design, after all. Bringing the three of them together, knowing full well that blood will be spilled and that neither will escape unscathed.

A light is turned on, and then another, illuminating the room just enough to partially transform the glass into a mirror. Will follows Hannibal’s reflection around the room, notes that the doctor’s old armor of cashmere, silk and wool is firmly back in place.

Hannibal doesn’t speak as he removes the covers from the furniture one by one and folds them. When he’s done he collects the pile and disappears into the pantry.

As he watches, Will realizes that he’s missed seeing Hannibal like this – in his element, in a setting of comfort and luxury, so far removed from the hospital’s façade of confinement.  

If it weren’t for Dolarhyde, Hannibal would still be locked in that cell. If it weren’t for The Dragon’s interest in  _him_ , Will would still be home with his wife. It’s a futile exercise of “what if”, but Will finds it difficult to steer his thoughts away from it. 

Hannibal reappears, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Are you playing games with yourself in the dark of the room?” he asks, and, as if reading Will’s mind, adds, “It wasn’t surprising when I heard from The Great Red Dragon. It wasn’t surprising when you heard from him.”

“Yes and no,” Will says. He’d like to believe that Dolarhyde would have never targeted him if it weren’t for Hannibal’s obsession with him. But then again, Hannibal’s obsession with him is an inevitability in and of itself, so perhaps Will really shouldn’t have been surprised.

Hannibal gives him a long, assessing look.

For once, Will doesn’t feel the urge to break eye contact. It’s not as if they have anything left to hide from each other. Hannibal had been inside him not fifteen minutes ago. He’s been inside Will, figuratively, for a long, long time.

“Do you intend to watch him kill me?” Hannibal asks as he sets the two polished glasses atop the piano.

Not for the first time, Will lets that scenario play out in his mind. He finds that, even now, his feelings are mixed. “I intend to watch him change you,” he says instead, because that’s likely to happen regardless of the end result.

Hannibal’s initial reaction is inscrutable, but then something passes over his face – a streak of vulnerability, immediately wiped away by a wave of annoyance. “My compassion for you is inconvenient, Will.”

Will almost laughs. Hannibal says it as if he expects Will to apologize for making him care, but Will knows that what he’s really after is an admittance of reciprocation. Will isn’t ready to give it to him. Not yet. “If you’re partial to beef products it is inconvenient to be compassionate toward a cow,” Will says, deliberately baiting him.  

Hannibal chuckles, but doesn’t bite. He uncorks the wine, passes one of the glasses to Will before pouring. “Save yourself, kill them all,” he quotes.

It’s yet another scenario Will has considered, but in this case he thinks the decision will be taken out of his hands. “I don’t know if I can save myself,” he admits, looks up at Hannibal. “Maybe that’s just fine.”

Will would have never imagined that the prospect of his death might affect Hannibal so, but as the words leave his mouth the doctor’s eyes become more expressive than Will’s ever seen them; dejected, wistful and aching all at once.

It causes a lump to form in Will’s throat, makes his next inhalation excruciating. His freefall has already begun, he realizes. And he has nothing to hold on to. Nothing except the man standing next to him.

Looking at Hannibal now, with the ghost of Hannibal’s touch still lingering, and Hannibal’s scent still clinging to his skin, Will thinks that it might just be enough.

Hannibal finally turns away, pours wine into his own glass. “No greater love hath man than to lay down his life for a friend,” he recites.

Will’s entire being is overflowing. It’s already too much and he doesn’t think he can handle biblical declarations of devotion with The Great Red Dragon on their doorstep. “He’s watching us now,” he says, because he needs this to stop before Hannibal destroys him completely.

Hannibal’s “I know” sounds like a farewell.

The wine bottle shatters.

 

end.


End file.
